Perhaps a sequence brewing. We shall see.

Aftermath of adverse weather conditions, I

The conkers have been rained off
their branches. They remain
unclaimed. I pick one up; its spikes
are soft. I place it beneath my foot
and bear down. The muddy shell
splits to reveal two conkers, naked
and uncooked, still attached
to their umbilical cords. I collected them
years ago, treasured the conker brown.
I never could let them go; even when
they shrivelled and left only memory of
my own face in them; leather-brown
and beaming. I toss the raw conkers down
with the others I hadn't noticed
until now: a graveyard of the milk-white
unborn. A feeding ground.